Saturday, 30 July 2011

An End to All Confessionals.

"How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?" – Blake.

(Poem I - The Confessional Trilogy)

An End to All Confessionals.

My Da told me,
That the boys from the Gorbals,
Got kicked in,
In the Overgate,
In Dundee.

My Da told me,
That when he was starving,
It was freezing in the tenement,
He would have much preferred,
The sunshine of Africa.

My Da told me you Christian brothers,
You are no better than me,
Better than me.
Not to emulate,


And so I sent my note to God,

Explaining who I was and what I tried to do,
I scratched my name on brass,
And over heads it flew.

I told him that I’d read about,
The fag machine and the righteous lout,
It was me, me, who played that night,
In ’99.
The Angels Chapterhouse,
When it all went so right

And then wrong for the Mouse.

I told my Da,
Someone lost their life that night,
And I will never forget.
Someone better than me,
No better than me.

Only surfacing from time to time,

All This.

I told Da that I crave my Stupor,
The one he gave me,
And the screaming will not stop,
Until the Unknown flies.
The screams are in the background now,
Only surfacing from time to row.

But wait, Da,
Replaced reality,
Suddenly and Oh, dear God,
A phonecall, paralysis.
Horrible I,
No shoestring of horses,
Or prickling berries.
Denying action,
Of contact,
Of contract
Of smile,
Cut by the words,
Which sound so vile.

My Da told me,
Everyone started talking about God,
He felt alone,
He wished something inside would flick the switch,
Wished he was wearing his old brown hat,
And sitting in the ditch,
When the old lady wept and thanked Jesus.

Wishes he was one,
Not one of you.
Just one little lie,
No lies,
To tell you he's in,
Forgive all the sin,
Better people than him,
The People in the Sky.

He made himself a victim,
Of habitual cynicism.

Love those who make no apologies,
Relentlessly apologise, he,
Tried by surrounding himself with them,
Then realised the threescore ten,
And active,
People, Christian sister,
My Da told me you are all alone,
And have become psychotic,
Without a home.

(He could see it in the doctor's eye,
Intellect, but the need to defer the responsibility of freedom,
A reason, purpose?
A way to cope with the inability,

To comprehend infinity.)

I am sorry doctor, Christian brother,
But he wants it to be perfect,
Christian sister,
He cannot live without you,
And so,
Runs through a script,
And another,
And another,
All the white,
All of the right and drifting snow,
None of the false prophetic blow,
Succumbing to his deadly habits,
He cannot break,
Which cost him happiness and ache, ache.

My Da told me,

The sand and the sun,

The beach and the dip,

The green hill, alone in the rain,
The pub, dripping and laughing,
Drip, drip, drip, fresh air through the bar,
While taking off jackets and chattering rounds,
And laughing and smiling,
Smell of outside taking over the room,
Comfort inevitable nihilist doom,
Taking over the smell of outside in the room.

And me, running home through the leaves from school,
Along the Kingsway taunting cruel,
To Ambrosia Creamed Rice from the tin,
Alone, alone, and alone with sin.

Everyone started talking about their God,
He felt alone,
No better.

Your multitudes are in the background now,

Until I run home again,
From school along the Kingsway,

In the cold and early dark.

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